Oh! Look at it, look!
'Tis a cinder-like book,
There's nothing to show for the time which it took!
A LAD.
I scarcely remember a word that I wrote;
There was nothing to praise, and little to note;
Three hundred and sixty-five days went so fast,
I scarce could believe when we came to the last.
But many a blunder and fault there has been.
OLD YEAR.
I cannot find one, they are blotted out clean.
I see against sin you have manfully striven,
Each fault was mourned over, confessed and forgiven,
Then effaced by the blood-purchased mercy of Heaven.
But other things stay, quite forgotten by you,
In bright golden letters they flash on the view;
I think that the hand of some kind angel wrote
The actions you thought were too trifling to note.
Let others now read them, as they will appear
In the glorious Day, when the whole world shall hear.
FIRST BOY READS—
Three hundred times written—"took care of young brother."
SECOND BOY READS—
And hundreds of times—"went on errands for Mother."
GIRL READS—